Modesty

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I just read Elder Hales’ talk in the August Ensign about modesty.

As I started reading, I thought, “Oh, this won’t apply to me, because I always dress modestly.” I don’t even wear knee-length skirts anymore (if I did, I wouldn’t be able to chase my crawling baby very easily!). Surely, I don’t need to read about modest apparel!

Then this paragraph stood out:

Tight pants, tight shirts, excessively baggy clothing, wrinkled apparel, and unkempt hair are not appropriate. … We should always be neat and clean, avoiding sloppiness or inappropriate casualness.

This hit me like a brick: how many times in the past ten months since my son has been born have I not ironed my shirt, not done my hair, not cared how sloppy I looked?

I used to iron my shirt when I went to work every day. I never iron my shirt anymore. I suppose I can use that fact that no one but an infant sees me as an excuse to be sloppy and unkempt. And there are always Those Days when we’re sick or my son didn’t sleep, etc. I suppose mothers can always find an excuse. But I was really intrigued by Elder Hales’ words:

Modesty is at the center of being pure and chase, both in thought and deed. … it reflects who we are and what we want to be, both here in mortality and in the eternities that will follow.

It seems to me, he’s saying modesty is not so much about making sure your skirt is long enough and your shirt isn’t showing off your navel. Modesty is a way of thinking: modesty is respect for your body.

How we fell on the inside shows on the outside. …

When we know who we are – children of God – and understand that our outward appearance affects our inward spirituality and ultimately our behavior, we show respect for God, for ourselves, and for those around us by being modest in dress and behavior.

I’m going to go comb my hair again. Apparently, that’s a part of putting on the whole armor of God.

Fiction: A Failed Proposal

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The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.

Real Writing

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Write On Wednesday asks:

Do you consider yourself a writer? Do you think blogging is “real writing?” What does it take to be a “real writer”?

I write for a blog.

Actually, I write for four blogs.

But, like Becca says, I don’t tell people I do. When they ask what I like to do, I say “reading” or “photography,” but I never say “I like to write.” I never say “I blog. A lot.”

I am torn in that respect. Why can’t I speak up? Chefdruck mentioned on her site a few weeks ago that she similarly had to “come out of the closet” in admitting that blogging is a large part of her life. I’m still in the closet.

In my mind, my blogging-writing isn’t “real writing.” It is a hobby that I take seriously. I spend much more time writing my book reviews. But when I get time, as I do this Saturday morning, I sit down to write and think about my writing process. As I’ve made clear on this blog, at some point in my life, I hope to make writing (anything) a priority. When will that be? I don’t know.

What would it take to make my writing “real”? Real writing, to me, is something that has been written and rewritten and polished. I’m sorry to say that while I do work hard on these blog entries, they are hardly “polished.”

Someday, I’ll write “for real.” Maybe I write a well-researched nonfiction book about something that interests me. Maybe I’ll write a novel. Maybe I’ll write a story. Maybe I’ll ghostwrite. At some point I’ll make my writing real.

I still consider myself a writer. For now, though, I’m just a “closet writer.” A “blogging writer.”

Random Thoughts

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Departure Pending

My husband’s boss has agreed to let him finish the project this month, as well as take two weeks’ vacation. We’re going to New Zealand in two weeks and returning to the USA at the end of the month. Hallelujah! It’s not that we don’t like it here; we’re just ready for the next stage. We’ve kind of been pulled back and forth since May. (I never thought I’d miss all of summer! We’re going from winter back in to autumn.)

Old Stuff

My husband has a shirt with a rip by the wrist. He wears it almost every week. I told him he needs to throw it out. Really, what will people think about me as his wife?! That I can’t keep my husband from being shabby? Then he pointed out that I keep my brown shoes.

My brown shoes were bought before my mission (in 2003). They were very nice for a few years, and I took pains to polish them regularly. However, polishing the shoes no longer does any good, as the leather has worn through. The company no longer makes that style, so I can’t replace them. They are very comfortable, so I still wear them nearly every day. I guess I never wondered what people think. They are just comfortable shoes to me.

Hmmm. Now I have a dilemma: My shoes or no more old shirt?

Medicinal Matters

My husband got ill for the third time in the 13 months we’ve been here. Of course, then both Paul and I got sick as well. My husband rarely gets ill in the USA. Why are there so many bugs here?

I’ve determined why: they don’t have proper medicine easily accessible. If you go to the supermarket, they have three small shelves. One the first row, every bottle says “All Natural Ingredients.” On the second and third rows, there is no such notice on the bottles. No matter, as soon as turn it over to look at the ingredients, you realize all three have Echinacea, Zinc, and Vitamin C. Nice things to take if you’re sick, but hardly a Cold and Flu remedy as the bottle proclaims. You’re still going to be coughing on your co-worker all week.

To get real medicine (the kind that actually suppresses your coughs, stops your nose from running, or makes your coughs productive; the kind with lots of chemicals in it), you have to go to the chemist (pharmacist), which might have them behind a special counter. You have to ask for them. And then it’s a very small bottle. If you want to have more, you must visit the doctor and get a prescription.

As for the doctors, General Practitioners are pretty useless. They should be call LPs, Limited Practitioners. Among other things, I was told I just had muscle cramps and it turned out to be gall stones. Yeah. GPs are worthless. (They are essentially free for Australian citizens under Medicare, so maybe socialized medicine is not such a good thing, huh?)

So why are there so many bugs in Australia, and why do we keep getting sick? When people get sick, they take natural ingredients, which do nothing to stop the sneezing and coughing. Bugs are spread, and more people get sick. That’s my philosophy.

If you like the natural route for medicine, you’d love Australia! That’s what it is. Personally, I like medicines that work when I’m ill.

Sniff.

Coming Alive

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How do you cultivate creativity in your life?  Have you found the things that make you come alive? Are you doing them? Shouldn’t you be? (Write on Wednesday)

I started blogging for the public world in May — a book blog, this writing blog, a photography blog. All the sudden, there is a new creativity in my life, and it feels good.

Sometimes I get an idea for a writing sketch. Writing that makes me come alive.  I am not very good at fiction, but when I had time, I sat down and responded to some Fiction Friday prompts. I really felt alive as I created those characters. I’ve tried my hand at a novel that I have in mind. But time seems to stifle my creativity; I don’t have nearly enough time to spend nurturing those little children into being.

Every few weeks, I take some pictures, or I work with old photographs I’ve taken. I tweak them and upload them to my photography blog. I like working with my photographs, and I feel creative. But again, time stops me, and I get busy and forget.

Most often, I’ve been reading. When I finish reading something and stop to write a few passages about it, I feel I come alive. Analyzing what I read was what I did in college as an English major. I loved it then. I love it even more so now because I’m not spending days on each book: I’m finding the inspiring themes in less than 1,000 words and then I’m moving on to another inspiring book. Good literature is helping me cultivate my creativity.

Am I doing all I can to cultivate creativity? No; if so, I’d spend all day nurturing my fictional characters and the words and photographs that feel so good. Instead, I nurture my little boy, who is going to be walking soon and seems to eat constantly these days. Should I be doing more? No, my priorities are where they should be right now.

Sometimes, I wish I could spend eight hours a day writing and reading. Then my boy laughs as he stands up: he’s so proud of himself. I realize I don’t want to change anything.

So for now, I’ll focus on being a mom 24 hours a day. That keeps me alive. I’ll also keep reading inspiring literature: it adds an aspect of creativity that makes me feel alive, even when I’m too busy to sit and give life to the fictional characters and writing sketches residing in my mind.

Don’t Talk To Strangers, Starting Next Year?

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Ever since Paul was born, I get comments and smiles and questions every time we go out:

  • Oh, he’s so cute!
  • What’s his name?
  • How old is he?
  • What a great smile!
  • How many teeth does he have?
  • etc., etc., etc.

I understand this. I read somewhere that people talk to pregnant women and mothers because everyone in a community is interested the next generation: the next generation influences the current generation. The entire community is therefore interested in what mothers do.

The other week, I realized that now that Paul’s getting older, soon, he’s start remembering that he’s smiling at strangers at the supermarket. When do I tell him to “never talk to strangers”? And where do we draw the line for “stranger”? For example, is the checkout girl a stranger? What if she’s new and we’ve never seen her before? What if there is a weird man in the line behind us? Do we still answer when the checkout girl asks us my son’s name and how old he is?

This may come across as paranoia. I don’t really think anything bad will come of telling the checkout girl my son’s name. But I’m seriously curious: when do we stop talking to strangers? Or, rather, when do we stop encouraging our kids to talk to or smile at strangers?